This is a Gift, It Comes With a Price
by JustMyName2050
Summary: Sansa is mourning the loss of her rose, Loras when she is told of the "arrangement" with Lord Baelish. While marrying Littlefinger is something she is dreading, she wants nothing more than to escape King's Landing and never come back. But even Sansa knows every gift comes with a price, and Cersei is aware of Littlefinger's weakness. She has only one duty in her marriage to Petyr...
1. These Games We Play

**Chapter 1****: These Games We Play**

**"Sansa Stark is the key to the North. And if Littlefinger marries her, he'll have the key in his pocket."**

He sits at his desk. The crackle of the scrolls and paper and ink under his hands. There is the soft mewing heard from his girls in the background, and pungent smell of incense creeps into his nostrils. He crumples a letter in his fist, his fingernails drawing blood in his palm. He gazes at his cup of wine; it is illuminated and glowing from the embers of the fire. The reflection of light casting blind-spots in his vision, and sometimes he wishes he could dive deep into the black nothingness...then there would be no more need for games.

A knock at his door stirs him and he recomposes himself, buttoning his doublet and re-pinning his mockingbird that perches on his collarbone.

"Who is it?"

"The Queen Reagent." a cold, muffled voice of a guard answers from the other side of the massive oak doors.

Petyr straightens. In a hurry he gathers his papers and stacks them as neat as possible, holding a small cloth to his hand trying to stop the blood. He swiftly returns to his seat, always the expert at composure.

She enters, surrounded by her usual gaggle of guards.

"Leave us." She motions them to the door. Needless to say, he is very surprised to see her.

"You are the last person I'd imagined visiting my chambers so late in the evening." he says, a hint of a flirtation on his lips, his green-grey eyes gleaming at her, the reflection of the candles in his irises.

She remains standing, asserting her power and gazing down at him. Her features display her mild appreciation of his comment.

"While that notion rather repels me, Lord Baelish, this was the only way I knew of having the most privacy."

He raises his eyebrows in question.

"I have a proposition for you. Remember, it seems like ages ago now, when Ned Stark and his daughters first game to King's Landing, you asked me a certain question about his eldest?"

"Which you made very clear would never happen in my lifetime...or the next." He replies, remembering the embarrassment of that encounter. It was not one of his most intelligent inquiries, and he can feel the hotness creeping up his collar, but he refuses it to be shown in his face.

"It seems my father has lost his interest in her. With Robb Stark dead, Winterfell burned to ashes, and your marriage to Lysa Arryn so abruptly ended," She pauses and her steel blue eyes glance at him knowingly, "Sansa Stark needs to be gotten rid of, wouldn't you agree?"

"You wish to see her married to a Lord of meager substance."

She sits, boredom creeping into her eyes.

"It would require you to leave King's Landing when the wedding is over. You would renounce your position as master of coin and your seat at the small council, and go live out the rest of your days in the Vale, or throwing your coin away at Haarenhaal..."

She puffs in annoyance, "_Gods_, I don't really care. As long as you and Sansa Stark are as far away from court as possible."

He understands "court" to mean Joffrey. There can be no other reason for Cersei coming to him in the middle of the night, so eager to secretly hatch this plan after so thoroughly letting her feelings known on the subject only a few months got to her, Varys perhaps or the Tyrells. Maybe he had missed a bird hiding in the darkness. It could be Cersei just sniffing him out. Either way, it didn't matter. This was a tainted proposition that stunk something foul. It was bound to haunt him in the future, but those intelligent blue eyes and Tully hair came to mind and somehow he couldn't refuse.

"Done." He said, the candlelight glimmering in his eyes, but they held no expression.

She was watching him. Her lips were pushed down hard into a disgusted frown, her brow creased, the slight start of her face aging. The expression made her look older than her nine and twenty years.

But _her_ eyes gave her away. They danced with triumph.

"Aha! You know that we thought about marrying her off to my Imp brother. Thought to keep her in the family, but you know how young boys can be when they tire of their ladies in court. He couldn't bear to have his used goods spoiling his chances with Margaery Tyrell, yet the idea of her in union with the Uncle he despises he disliked even more."

She means this to hurt and embarrass him. She wants him to feel degraded, having to be married to a ruined woman, and by an infantile, wormy Lannister no less, only to be outchosen by an Imp. It's only a brief moment. His eyes turn dark, and he drops his head gazing at his papers on his desk. His mouth twitches in discomfort. It is his best attempt at looking hurt,

"I am grateful, your grace." He says earnestly.

She smiles at his discomfort, her mouth resembling Joffrey's in the most unpleasant way,

"I must say, your response was much more eager than Lady Sansa's. I told her the wedding would take place tomorrow, and she was choking back tears. Pity... those big blue eyes of hers were set on Loras." A hearty laugh escapes her.

He is surprised by this. He was the last to know. He's _never_ the last to know. He let's the disappointment crawl across his features. She revels in it.

"Again, I am truly grateful, Your Grace. I am in your debt." He says, acknowledging her obvious pleasure.

"That is the idea, Lord Baelish."

She leaves without another word, her skirts softly moving about her. The clash of the guards armor following her down the hall and out into the courtyard. When all is quiet he relaxes in his chair, sighing a deep breath of satisfaction. There is always satisfaction in being relieved of Cersei's company. Removing the mockingbird from its perch and unbuttoning his doublet he can no longer contain the chuckle that escapes his lips. It is just too fun sometimes, these games that we play.


	2. I Am Yours, and You Are Mine

"**Here I am, a rabbit hearted girl, Frozen in the headlights. It seems I've made the final sacrifice."**

Sansa awakens, her eyes wide with alarm as she holds her hand up and stares at it. Fluidly, she twists her wrist to inspect both sides. She flexes it back and forth, clenching and stretching her dexterous and strong fingers. She was dreaming of an unfamiliar young man, tall and sturdy, hair curling around his shoulders, and startling almond-shaped eyes as black as night. He grabbed her hand, and in the in between moment of being awake and unconscious she could have sworn someone was squeezing her tightly. The presence felt real, and she could not shake it.

Guilt floods her body as she wonders what Loras would feel of her dreaming about a handsome man touching her hand, but then her memory regroups itself as to what day it is. What Loras thinks holds no meaning anymore because her hand belongs to Lord Baelish. Images pile up in her mind of what the night will bring, how the man will run his hands with their long, slender gracefulness over her cheeks and down her collarbone, over her belly, and to the secret parts of her. He is the exact opposite of any man she ever imagined being the one to claim her maidenhead.

A scarlet blush forms on her chest and climbs to her cheeks as The Hound suddenly comes to mind, and she thinks on the kiss he gave her in her chambers on that fiery night. Even he, with his scarred and deformed face and melancholy eyes resembles something more closely familiar to the man of her dreams.

Sansa's mind races, _Why me? Why must I always be the martyr to the cause of the North? How did I end up with such an awful marriage? Lord Baelish has been nothing but outwardly kind since I arrived in King's Landing, but I feel a sense of uneasiness he has caused me, and I never can read him. Most of the time I feel like he is laughing at me. How can I be a wife to someone I can't understand?_

Before he set off to marry her aunt she was looking forward to going with him North only to be detained by Queen Cersei. When she summoned her to her chambers she assumed it was to inform her of her marriage to a handsome Tyrell. It was one thing to accompany Lord Baelish home to Winterfell, but it was an entirely different game to become his wife. Turning over in her bed she hugs her pillow to her chest and buries her face in the down. She never wishes to leave this bed because that means she must accept her fate.

Many minutes later, as she is groaning loudly and fighting back tears, she sits up and rests her elbow on her pillow as the dream fades from her mind. The dark eyed man fades like a mirage in the Red Waste until she can barely remember him at all. It is morning and the sun hasn't risen completely as the hazy glow of dawn still lingers. The air is still and quiet, not being claimed by man's activity yet. This quiet is only interrupted by Shae clanking a tray with her breakfast against the door.

"I know it is earlier than usual, My Lady, but I thought you should break your fast early as possible if we are to have you ready by this evening."

She is standing steadily with her arms folded in front of her, and her back straight as an arrow. She is dressed in her usual mauve frock, and the first blush light compliments her dark beauty.

She glances at Sansa's breakfast tray, "I was able to scour the kitchens for some lemon cakes. I know they are your favorite." And she smiles the biggest smile Sansa has ever seen come from Shae's lips.

It's a feeble attempt at making her situation more pleasant. She stares at her wedding gown hanging limply over the small chair by her dressing table. It is a sage color that she's never worn before. Across the entire gown the stitching was such a deep brown that it almost looks black. The pattern consisted of a jagged scroll that resembled tree branches in the dead of winter. As it settled across the natural waist of the gown two stitched mockingbirds sat perched facing each other. At the center of the deep scoop neckline there was a tiny silver mockingbird that matched the one Lord Baelish wears signifying the partnership of their two houses.

_I don't understand how I, a stupid little girl, can ever be a partner to him. Why would he be interested in marrying someone like me in the first place?_

Sansa thinks on how different her life will be from now on. Her girlhood is officially over as of today, and for as much as she wanted to be rid of it, now that it's gone, she deeply mourns its loss.

It took place in the courtyard. It was met to be a slight by Cersei not being married in the actual castle, but in spite of this she was glad to be under the sunshine, and being closer to the Godswood gave her great comfort. She waited inside patiently, praying the fierce direwolf at her back would give her strength. Suddenly, the large doors opened and the light took her breath away. For an instant, everything was white and she was blinded. When her eyes adjusted, Joffrey came rushing at her like a demon. She sniffed back her tears, and asked, "What are you doing?"

He looked at her, viperous, "Your father is dead. I am the father of the realm, and therefore I'll give you away."

He seemed pleased with himself, and his words stung, but in truth she was bored with him. She understood that he reveled in her unhappy marriage, and thought to have her in his bed anyway. It gave her solace she was leaving on the morrow and Joffrey would no longer be able to torment her. Instead of giving him the pleasure of a reaction, Sansa turned her head, drew up her chin in mock pride, and continued as gracefully as she could down the rest of the aisle.

She spotted Lord Baelish, waiting for her at the end. He wore a dark brown doublet that had the same branches that climbed up his neck from each shoulder and resting on either side of his collar was a green mockingbird. The rest of his attire was simple and plain except for a belt that had a very small, fierce-looking face as the buckle; its two emerald eyes glittering in the sunlight._ I wonder what that symbolizes._ He didn't seem nervous, and she was slightly disappointed. She wanted him show some kind of emotion. Something to tell her he was real. Something to say he was just as uncomfortable as she was. (She wasn't sure he was at all) When she settled in next to him, the officiant cleared his throat, and spoke loudly, "You may now cloak the bride, and bring her under your protection."

Making eye contact would be too horrible, so Sansa turns her back to himand waits for the cloak. He grabs the cloak from her shoulders, his fingers slightly grazing the back of her neck as he does so. His proximity makes her skin itch and her hair stand on end in anticipation. There's a pause, and then she feels him return with his cloak, and he wraps it around her, the heaviness weighing her down. She feels him again only this time its his breath on her shoulder and she knows he is almost close enough to whisper in her ear. She feels like he is gloating.

But just when the thought enters her mind, he is gone again, the empty space returns, and the officiant continues,

"King Joffrey, All the Lords and Ladies of the Court...We stand here in the sight of Gods and men to witness the union of man and wife. With these vows House Baelish and House Stark will be one. Repeat after me," he states and motions to Lord Baelish.

Following his lead Petyr repeats the vow, "With this kiss," His voice is deep, and calm. "I pledge my love, and take you for my lady and wife. I am yours, and you are mine, from this day until the end of my days."

Hoping she has masked the quivering in her voice, Sansa echos, "With this kiss, I pledge my love, and take you for my lord and husband. I am yours, and you are mine, from this day until the end of my days."

Satisfied, the officiant continues, "Here in the sight of gods and men, I do solemnly seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity, proclaiming Petyr of House Baelish and Sansa of House Stark to be man and wife, one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever, and cursed be the one that comes between them."

He looks at them both, waiting. _A pause_. His eyebrows raise, "Well?" He says, quite impatiently.

It suddenly dawns on Sansa, and her eyes dart to Lord Baelish. This is the first time that she can really take him in. He is waiting patiently, if not a little expectantly. His eyes are warm, and his mouth is slightly turned up into the hint of a smile, his hands clasped and relaxed in front of him. She notices, quite shockingly (as she has never really noticed them before), that his eyes are a very pale green, and the brown and green of his doublet make them smolder with intensity. They may be inviting eyes, but open and friendly are not how she would describe them. Other than they're warmness, they give nothing away. There is no display of emotion. She couldn't guess at what age he is. He seems older than Cersei, but still much younger than her father, despite the gray that grazes his temples. There are lines around his mouth and eyes suggesting a face that has seen a breadth of expression, and a crease at his forehead that she imagines is due to long hours gazing at account books. Even so, there is nothing that denotes old age. His shoulders are assuming, his back erect, and his movements are fluid and practiced, almost like the dancers she had seen as a child.

His lips part, "Sansa?" he asks, his green eyes (_Or are they grey?_) open with concern "Are you all right?"

She comes to, blinking away her thoughts and stares at him. She looks around her to the Lords and Ladies of the court spread across the courtyard, waiting for something to happen.

Realizing she must have just been frozen and staring at him, she blushes a violent shade of pink, _I am so tired of blushing_, and then the only thing she can think to do is grab is hand.

So she does.

It's warm and smooth accept for the hard writer's callous, his fingers are thin and nimble. He grasps her other hand, and finally leaning in, kisses her. It is so short, so light on her mouth, it is like she was touched by a feather; and its over before she has time to comprehend what has happened.

"Thank the Gods!" Joffrey cheers from behind her, impatience in his voice, " That was painful. Let's feast."

And with that they are whisked away, her arm around his, his hand upon hers. It's strange having him so close. She can feel the heat radiate off of him, and she's reminded of the springs warming the floors in Winterfell. _It won't be cold in his bed, at least._ The thought makes her flush once again, the heat of it causing sweat to pool on the small of her back, and her eyes dart around impetuously making sure no one has heard her. It would have been different with someone like Joffrey or Loras. They are young men, and while they have probably still had women, the intimidation is nothing similar to how she felt with the Hound, and now _him_. There is something... Is it Fear? Exhilaration? That, just by the act of standing next to her, these men cause a deep stirring in her body. They know something she doesn't. It's that feeling of helplessness when you realize everyone around you knows something you don't-Have felt more, have loved more, have killed more...They have _lived_.


	3. The Drumming

**There's a drumming noise inside my head that starts when you're around. **

**I swear that you could hear it, it makes such an all mighty sound. **

**Louder than sirens, louder than bells, sweeter than heaven, and hotter than hell. **

**As I move my feet towards your body I can hear this beat it fills my head up, **

**And gets louder and louder.**

The bedding parade wasn't as embarrassing as she envisioned, and she made a point to ask Shae to make sure there was a robe available to her. Joffrey's disturbed mouth glistening as he wets his lips, Cersei's cruel eyes, and the look of need on Tyrion's face was all she imagined. It made her skin crawl. She wasn't theirs to have, and she felt very protective of that. The Lannisters have taken everything from her, and this she refused to give. She didn't want old men and boys gaping at her as many made it quite clear how much that would delight them. She would not let them have the satisfaction. Petyr seemed appreciative of this, and when she shyly made her sentiments known he stood and made a distinct announcement: if he were to find his Lady Wife in anything less than her robe on her way to their chambers, that they would find themselves in one of the seven hells.

She made it to their wedding suite just as he asked.

The silence is deafening when the last giggle of the wedding guests disappears behind the large doors leading to their suite. It's a room Sansa's never been in before being usually reserved for guests. It's much larger than her rooms and much grander. There is a imposing, mahogany four post bed facing a large window that overlooks the bay. She can see the last fiery hint of daylight on the horizon as the sky fades to stars. The Summer twilight casts a deep rosy hue to the atmosphere and it adds to the luminous aura of the candles lit about the room.

Even in these large rooms she felt it close in on her suffocatingly. The closeness of him was all too apparent. She looked at the bed, at her feet, at the wall, anywhere but his eyes. Sansa waited for what felt like forever for him to say something, _anything_ to alleviate the tension in the air. Suddenly, his forefinger and thumb were on her chin gently coaxing her to face him. A heavy sigh escapes her lips as he touches her, and she could feel her heart thundering in her chest so hard that it echoed in her ears. She didn't think she could feel this nervous. Her eyelashes flutter and she finally looks at him under heavy wine soaked eyelids. It just kept flowing at the feast, and she didn't see the need to stop. After all, her father did warn her how fast ladies legs spread when they have had too much wine. _How wrong I was in thinking it would make things easier._ Even with all the drink, his touch had caused her nerves to shake all the wine from her body and she realized how sober she was, and nothing scared her more.

"All is well, my sweet Sansa" he says her name, barely a rasp.

She takes him in. He is still wearing his doublet, but it is completely unbuttoned, and unkempt. She can see his yellow-green tunic clearly underneath. It's unlaced at the top and she spots his collarbone, and a slight change in pigmentation where a raised scar forms at the hollow of his neck. It disappears under his tunic. He catches her looking at it curiously and smiles out of corner of his mouth, "That's a tale for another time, my sweetling."

She watches him smile and thinks on Loras's lips. His were pouty and full complimenting his deep set eyes and curly, golden hair. Lord Baelish's mouth is slim and masculine and framed by a goatee. She decides she likes his nose, it is sure and straight, and finely boned. His eyes are also tainted with wine, and his hair is disheveled. _He is not unhandsome_, she thinks. There is something about him that she finds attractive, but she can't place what it might be. Truthfully, she is quite relieved. She thought she might find him repulsive once they were behind closed doors, and that she would recoil away from his touch.

"Sansa?" He inquires again, and his eyebrows raise creasing his forehead with lines of concern.

"I am fine, Lord Baelish...it's just that...well," she stutters, "I'm very nervous, you see. Well, I'm..."

"I know, my sweet," he reassures her. "You don't have to say anything about it to me. If you are not ready..." He means to move away from her.

"I am!" she blurts out unexpectedly, catching him on his arm. She just wants to get it over with. Waiting would be torture, and even though she hates to admit it, curiosity has gotten the better of her. She needs to know what it is everyone finds so fascinating.

"Well, all right." He chuckles, "And please Sansa, I am your Lord Husband now. You may call me Petyr"

"Petyr." She repeats, her mouth feels odd with his given name. It's so...familiar.

He smiles at this, the first seemingly full smile she's ever seen from him. She notices dimples on his cheeks and that it reaches his eyes.

She's interrupted by his lips lightly grazing the back of her hand, and then her cheek, and then...

It's just as before, at first. Dry and chaste, and light as a feather. His lips are softer than she imagined. The hair from his beard grazes her lips softly. She panics and freezes up realizing that she has no idea where to go from here. Her arms are limp at her side, her eyes are closed, and she feels humiliated because she is drawing a blank on what to do next, _Do I put my hands on his chest? Should I open my mouth more? Do I throw my arms around his neck?_ She settles on bringing her hand up to rest on his arm, and he takes his cue, cupping her face in his hands again. There's more of a seriousness to his movements now, and the heat of him rushes over her.

Kissing her once more, it no longer feels feather-like. It's persistent, and as his lips are claiming her own he suddenly runs his tongue over her lips and parts them, cautiously entering her mouth and colliding with her own. Her body is stunned at the entirely new sensation and even though it takes her a moment to respond, her tongue seems to react naturally. Feeling her response, he is more keen. He's pushing into her now, their tongues dancing, and she can't believe this is what kissing feels like! Its rush flows over her body, from her head to her toes and all comes racing back to the place beneath her nightclothes. It's like her body has been waiting all its life, for this moment, and her head is swimming in all the newness.

His arm now encircles her waist, and he gently places his hand on the lowest part of the small of her back. He guides her to him, and she feels the hardness of his frame collide with the softness of her feminine shape. She hears a soft groan deep in his chest, and she smiles. She must say, that kissing is delightful, and she enjoys it immensely. He pulls away stealing her comfort with him, and he is staring down on her, his emerald eyes are glowing. She recognizes this now, the distinct look of wanting. Her mother had told her of the change in a man's face when he is in this state, and she witnessed it mildly once in Joffrey's eyes. But seeing longing on Petyr's face was not something she experienced before, and she cannot believe it is all for her.

He's kissing her neck now, his tongue making slow circles as he sucks on the delicate skin there. And now she is the one making noises, and when the soft mew escapes her lips she slams her mouth shut and her eyes dart open, hoping he didn't hear her. His endeavors have sent a shock to her womanly place, and it creates a drumming feeling there that makes her knees want to buckle. She feels it tighten and relax, and it's so strong that it is almost painful. She understands that need he is feeling, and she is perplexed her mother had never mentioned this part. Now she feels his fingers slowly move from her waist to the front of her dress, gently grabbing where it is open and pushing it from her shoulders. She hears it cascade on the floor, and pool at her feet. The cold hits her hard in nothing but her corset and shift, and goosebumps crawl up her arms. His fingers then move down the clasps at the front of her corset, and with practiced hands releases her from its grasp. She feels the weight of her breasts and tummy, and she knows her shift is see through in the light. Her vulnerability is substantial.

Instinctively Sansa's arms come up to her shoulders to wrap herself, but he gently grasps them midair and brings them back down to her sides.

He has stopped kissing her now, and she can feel his eyes on her. He is boring into her and she tries to stifle a sudden need to run. Mustering all her bravery, she straightens her shoulders, and looks him in the eye. He meets her gaze intently. Then, still keeping eye contact grasps her hands in his own, and brings them up to his chest. There, he guides her to undo the laces of his tunic. She can hear the beat of her heart gradually grow louder in her ears, and it takes all of her to keep her hands from shaking. His hands drop from her and she continues until all the laces are undone and she can see the light spread of his chest hair. As his tunic slips to the floor, she let's out a gasp, and stares, her mouth agape.

What she thought was a small scar on his collarbone revealed itself to be an angry and straight track that spanned down his taught chest to just above his naval. Without thinking, she runs her fingers over it as gentle as a whisper, her eyes fascinated as she traces the path from his chest to his belly. When she first makes contact with his skin, he flinches slightly, but then relaxes. It's unexpected. She never imagined under his neat exterior something exuding such pain and lack of judgement. For it could only have been a severe lack of judgement that earned him this.

Her eyes connect, and he's grabbing her, his mouth is fully on hers now, his tongue violently clashing with her own. His hands are roaming her body from her back, gliding to her breasts, and he cups her in his hand making her grab at his back. His hands continue their journey past her belly and around to take hold of her hips before they make it to their destination on her backside. He grabs and squeezes her cheek and the throbbing between her legs returns and doubles in intensity. It is the same rhythm as the heart beat in her chest which reverberates in her head. She feels him gently go to the backs of her thighs and pulls her up. For as lean as his shoulders and arms appear they are sure in their movements. He brings her legs to wrap around him and now she is looking down on him. Her legs tighten around his waist reflexively and she fears she might fall, _I must be too heavy for this. _

With this he turns towards the bed, and gracefully walks up the two steps to reach it. Then with, a thrust she is flat on her back and gazing up at him. He is in nothing but his bare feet and breeches now. They are slightly unlaced from some woman pulling at him during the bedding ceremony and from all the erratic movement they sit well below where his hips protrude. There isn't an ounce of extra padding on him anywhere. His stomach is spread lean across his hips, and his chest is compact. He is all lean muscle and bone. She looks at his face, down his neck, and observes his graceful collarbone that spreads out to his small shoulders. He is more robust and youthful than she imagined, and she is happy to say that it pleases her. _Maybe my dreams were wrong_, She decides.

She hopes that his appreciative glance down at her means he feels the same way. He puts one knee on the bed and motions for her to sit up. She does so and then, he's lifting her shift from her body, and pulling it over her arms. Her cheeks burn, and she feels herself flush from her chest and neck. Her temples glisten, and her palms feel clammy. She feels her nipples harden with the cold, and now he's pushing her down. He sits at the bed's edge, his eyes for a brief second taking her in. Gently, grasping each foot in his palm and gliding each stocking off, his finger lightly trailing down her leg all while looking at her eyes. His fingers again trace a line up her shin, over her knee, to her thigh. He makes soft circles there with his thumb, and continues up until he finds where her thighs form a V. She inhales deeply, and tries not to close her eyes. She watches as his fingers dance over her creases to her tuft of hair at her center. She feels her breathing become more labored now, and she watches her stomach rise and fall. His circles continue, and now she feels her secret place pound, and she's glad she isn't standing. All the while, he is watching her, a slight contented smile on his lips, just sitting on the edge of the bed. While his circles continue and get more rhythmic, his other hand wanders up her hips to her natural waist, and then he takes her breast in his hand, and squeezes slightly. The sensation is obliterating, and a profound moan leaves her lips making her want to look around the room, just one more time, to make certain they are alone; but in this moment, she's not sure she cares.

Her sound coaxes him to join her on the bed. He stands and she hates the feeling of his hand leaving her, and with just the hint of hesitation undoes the rest of his laces, and slips his breeches off in one single motion. For all she imagined, and dreamed, and thought about what all the beautiful knights look like beneath their armor, it in no way prepared her for the shock of what was in front of her. It is surprising, and odd, and she doesn't quite fully understand how it's going to fit inside her. But in a strange way it still very attractive, and she wants to pull him closer. He descends on to the bed and resting two arms on either side of her he holds himself up on his elbows, and gazes down into her eyes. She can feel him completely now in all his slim muscle and the hardness of his manhood.

**He is burning.**

"Sansa." he says low in his throat. "You don't know how I've dreamed of this." She is taken aback by this declaration, _How long has he been thinking of me?_ Her mind wanders to all of their past encounters. She never would have guessed that was what was going on behind that cool exterior. Or maybe she did notice.

His knees find the bed in the space between her legs and he's gently spreading them with his well formed thighs. He's holding her face with one hand, while his other arm is supporting her back and pulling her to him. In the movement, she feels him involuntarily thrust, and she feels his throbbing hardness rub against her own wetness and heat. Her legs instinctively wrap around him. His lips, are at her ear and he groans again, this time louder. His beard tickles and she stifles a giggle. Now Petyr's hands are roaming her body, from her back to her breasts, and then they are grasping the softness at her hips. He's holding her so tightly, she's sure he'll leave bruises. She can't think straight, every sensation is completely new to her. She has no idea what to make of it, and in this moment she feels free. She is free of worry, and free of the games of King's Landing. She's free of Joffrey and Cersei's cruel sneers and remarks. In this moment, no one can hurt or use her, she feels completely safe.

She decides to let it all go. Sansa let's her worries fade, and she's decidedly ready to become a woman.

He slows, and raises his head slightly to face her, his nose is touching hers, he claims her mouth with his, and quietly says,

"Are you ready, my sweetling?"

"Yes," She exclaims, gasping.

Petyr kisses her again and he's more sure of himself than ever, his movements are distinct and purposeful now. There's a brief abeyance, and she feels him at her crevice, and in one swift motion he thrusts into her. Her back arches and she screams out in pain, but mostly in shock at how her fills her up, and invades her very being. Sansa dreamed about this moment for a long while now, and she was informed by her mother of the mechanics, but this feeling is nothing she could have imagined.

He retracts, and once again eases himself into her, now delving deeper inside her with each thrust, their bodies joined as one. His movements become more rhythmic, and the pain subsides giving way to small spurts of pleasure. She raises her hips up to match him. Just then he lets out a vehement, passionate moan. To see a man in such rapture, so vulnerable, especially Petyr Baelish, is amazing, and she relishes it. It gives her an astounding feeling of power, something she hasn't felt in such a long time that she thought it was forgotten. She realizes why men have started wars over the women they love. _We are the undoing of them._

Sansa notices his eyes, the green almost completely vanished, they are black with desire. She's shocked to realize these are the eyes of her dream, _But why would another man have his eyes?_

When Sansa pulls him into her with her calfs he kisses her more deeply and tenderly than ever before. As his steady thrusts turn to frenzied writhing she can feel him pulsating inside her and her walls hold him tightly. Violently, he let's out a long and low groan, pouring himself into her. With that, he collapses, and she's suddenly conscious of his heartbeat pounding uncontrollably in his chest as it beats against her own. She's aware of the sweat dripping from his brow, the wetness and the stickiness trickling between her thighs. She can feel him slowly withdrawing from her, still pulsating. The lay there, frozen like that, for what feels like eternity.

Then he kisses her cheek lightly, and flutters over her lips and eyelids, to her forehead. He caresses her neck, and collarbone, finally resting his head on her breasts hugging her tightly.

He looks up at her like he's remembered something important. "Sansa" he says, his eyes are mischievous now, and his mouth playfully smiles at her.

"Yes?"

"Would you like me to give you your wedding present?"

"What more could you give me, Ser?" she asks, sitting up now, confused.

"Petyr." he corrects. "And I can think of a few things, Sansa." he growls her name.

He's on her again, this time planting kisses on her small and pink tipped breast. She gasps a loud when his tongue dances over her nipple, and it forms into a hardening peak. He's suckling her like a babe, and she's astounded it brings her such pleasure. He releases her and moves to the other making sure they are equally satisfied. Then he's planting kisses one by one and marking a trail with his tongue over the softness of her belly, and lapping in the hills of her hips. She wonders where he is going as the throbbing returns from earlier. Her head falls back, and she mews for him. The aching is getting worse and worse, as he finds himself further down her body. Finally she feels his nose in the red curls between her legs. She needs him now. Sansa bucks up her hips, and tries to grab onto his shoulder to pull him up to her, but he pushes her away and keeps at his endeavors.

She feels him then. "Oh my!" she says and her head jerks up to look at him. "What are you doing?"

She is suddenly mortified, and means to lean away from him, but he shushes her, the black taking over his irises again. "Now, now, my sweetling, don't you trust your Lord Husband?"

"...Yes" she sighs. She tries to subdue her shaking nerves and control her breathing. She settles herself back onto the pillow, and closes her eyes, waiting.

Petyr's tongue glides softly between her folds, _I can't believe he's kissing me there_!, she thinks, and then she feels his tongue wandering up, closer to the throbbing, leaving trails of himself behind. Then he focuses his attention to her tiny nub, the one that is throbbing, and she almost screams out in ecstasy as he claims her there. His tongue moves up and down, and then to her pleasure in gentle circles. She's moaning now, she can't help herself. Her embarrassment is slowly creeping away with every pulse, and she's arching her back to rise and meet him. His hands slowly glide up her hips and torso and find her breasts. He's caressing them magnificently, and when he pinches the peak of her nipple between his fingers, she's crying out and grabbing at the pillow, the sheets, anything to crush in her fist. Every nerve ending in her body is on fire, and she can feel the slow building of pressure in her loins. She's dripping from Petyr's seed, her own slickness, and the wetness of his mouth, and she can feel it pooling on the mattress underneath her.

Sansa is surprised by the savagery of it all. It's so animalistic and raw, and she wonders how any one of those "civilized" people walk around in court acting like this doesn't happen between their sheets at night.

She hears a satisfied, muffled groan from between her legs, and she matches it. The movements of his tongue have quickened and her hips are grinding into the bed. There's a drumming rhythm to them now, he's grabbing at her thighs, and his fingers roughly pull at her backside. Sansa, continues the tempo, breathing desperate gasps until the pressure is so intense, so hot that she can't see, or hear, or think. And then there's a shattering moment of release and she shudders and cries out!

Sansa is spent. Utterly and completely spent. A sleepiness takes hold of her, and she relaxes into the down of the mattress. Petyr comes up to meet her, and kisses her fully. She tastes herself and feels her wetness in his whiskers. He smells of her intensity combined with the saltiness of his seed. At first she feels shy, and the rosiness returns to her cheeks. She wishes she didn't have to look at him, but she forces herself to and in this moment she sees his true face, all his masks put away, a boyish grin spread across it, and his eyes are sparkling. He swoops his arm around her shoulders and brings her in to his chest. She wraps her hands around his torso feeling his sharp hips jutting from beneath the taut skin. She can taste brine of his sweat, and smell the pungent, but appealing aroma coming from under his arms. She shuts her eyes, and breathes a deep sigh of utter contentment. Sansa is happy she is finally a woman.

Petyr smiles into her hair, "Did I not tell you to trust me, my sweet Lady Wife?"


	4. I Don't Care for This Careful Behavior

"**Oh how the rain sounds as loud as a lover's words**

**And now and again she's afraid when the sun returns."**

Petyr opens his eyes, blinking the sleep from them. He can't be sure of the hour, but it seems later than his usual rising. The sun is fully shining, and he can feel the heat of the day invading the room. He pulls the sheets off after noticing the heat, and turns over on his side facing Sansa, wishing the morning away. She still slumbers spread out on her stomach. She has the sheets pulled tightly under her arm exposing the delicate bones of her shoulder. They are fisted in her hand and tucked neatly under her chin, resting in the crevice of her neck. She breathes deeply, and her back rises and falls in a slow rhythm. He notices the golden highlights in her auburn hair that glow in the sunlight shining in from the window. He admires her youthful beauty, She is so young, and untouched. All the worry and hurt that creases her brow during the day is absent while she dreams. Her face is calm and serene, the red of her eyelashes is brilliant, and her mouth is swollen with the morning.

He still can't believe she is real. For as much as he wished for her to be his Lady Wife, and for all the moments he imagined such as last night in the dark confines of his rooms, nothing could compare to the reality. The passion he had for her, couldn't measure to anything he had felt for another woman (_accept maybe her mother_), but even then, that was a childish obsession which in the end he found to neither be of any substance, or even returned. The Tully family had treated him in the most improper way, and in this thought Lysa comes to his mind with her anxious eyes, and heavy body. He remembers what she did to him in his weakness, and it still sends a violent rage through his body; his teeth clench hard, and his hand forms into a fist aggravating the previous wound there.

Since making his home at King's Landing he has surrounded himself with whores and women of all shapes and sizes. Even so, he hasn't let himself be taken in by any of them. Sometimes his want to be touched and fucked was so strong, he couldn't bare it, but for anyone in this rotten city to discover just one of his weaknesses, would be the end of him. _I will not allow myself the pleasure, of having all the whores in King's Landing like most of these idiots, and then allow other men similar to myself to reap the benefits of things I say in bed_. For survival's sake, it simply could not pass.

Just then, hearing her rustle he lifts his eyes up at her, his ear resting on his folded arm beneath him. Her eyes flutter open, and she hasn't noticed him yet. She let's out a deep, contented sigh, and stretches out like a cat, the pink blush of a nipple peeking from behind the white of the sheets that cocoon her. She notes him staring, and her arms come down and she smiles, a rosiness displayed across her cheeks.

"Good Morning, Ser." Sansa says shyly, her smile widening.

"Petyr, my sweet." He responds, lightly gathering a wisp of hair in his fingers, and tucking it behind her ear. He deliberately grazes her cheek with his finger, and she unexpectedly folds in to his hand resting her head in his palm. He is surprised by her actions, and thinks,_ It must just be the vulnerability of the morning. She still glows from last night, and reality hasn't dawned on her as of yet._

While charming a woman usually wasn't a problem for him, he's never done so to someone who wasn't his "employee." Let's face it. _I am not a man women rush to lure to their beds, nor really to have an intellectual relationship with either_, He thinks disenchantedly. The closest thing he'd recently had to even a friendship was Ros, or maybe Varys, and (he chuckles inwardly) that wasn't saying much. _After all, women want the Loras's, the Neds, and the Jaime's of the world didn't they?_ _Blast be the thickness of their minds._ It was their pretty heads, gentle demeanors, and strong bodies that won them their loves. No one seemed to care that one liked to be fucked by men, the other by his sister. And the glorified Ned Stark, for all his beloved honor, let it overtake his very being so much that his head ended up on a pike.

Those are the men women love.

Therefore, Petyr fully expected this innocent, barely budding woman, to be completely disgusted by him, beg him to stop, freeze up... all while dreaming of her elegant Knight of Flowers. He supposed it was a business arrangement, and nothing more. He could accept that, and that was how he prepared himself that restless night before the wedding. He was good at these types of games, and would have been the perfect cold and cruel Lord Husband. He could feed off the fear and misery in her eyes. He would treat her as one of his whores. Thus, kindly reminding her when she was out of line, and when she would fuck, and the consequences if she became, to put it in his favorite words, "a bad investment." It would be easy, and he would squash away any of the feelings that would unrelentingly swell up in his chest,_ Because I know better than anyone, what happens to men who listen to their hearts_.

Then her reaction last night...it stripped all of what he prepared himself for away, and he was stunned into silence. He had so fully accepted the opposite, that when she puffed up and became flustered with fear, he calmly made for the bed, willing away the incessant throbbing in his prick, and the pull of the ache in his soul. He began searching his mind for his first plan of action in this miserable marriage.

Then she didn't.

She took hold of his arm, and there was a need to her movements, and want in her eyes.

She **wanted** him. She didn't even know him, and yet she wanted him. So then he gently cupped her beautiful face in his hands, and searched those Tully blue eyes deeply for any hint of doubt. He couldn't find any.

In that moment, he let it all go. Cat faded from his mind, and Lysa became a memory. He wasn't Littlefinger, **He was Petyr**, and he was there to give his love to the woman before him. It didn't matter what was ahead of them, or why they were married. All that mattered to him in that moment, was that she was a woman standing in front of him, asking him to show her love in the most human way possible, with no ulterior motive, no game plan...Just **need**.

Sansa's incessant fluffing of her pillow stirs him from his reverie. She finally has decided it is comfortable and she rests her elbow on it, and sits up facing him.

"Did you sleep well, my Lord?" she says her eyes bright with cheer.

"Not as long as I would've liked." He replies, " But waking early allowed me to admire your beauty while you slept." His words are full and kind, and he leans in to her nose smiling.

Completely charmed, her cheeks' hue deepens. Her face is almost phosphorescent as the sunlight glows over the creamy skin of her face. Her eyes are the same color as the sky, and he revels in making them dance. It still amazes him, at how easy it is to let his guard down with her. It lifts a weight off of his shoulders and let's it hang somewhere else for a while. There is no one to see him, none of Varys's little birds hiding in the corners. The entire rest of the castle, of King's Landing, for that matter, is concerned with some other issue. After all, why bother themselves, with the meager Lord, and his new Northern wife? It was the perfect escape plan for him, no longer crushed under the weight of the unforgiving Lannister paw.

It was also an excellent way for him to carry out his "affairs" at a remote, and safe location, all accompanied Sansa Stark.

She's looking at him intently now, her face serious and watchful, "You are nothing of the man I imagined, Petyr." she says his given name shyly, but the rest of her words are confident and questioning, "You are normally so artful, sarcasm and scheme dripping from every word you say. I called you the man of many masks as I found it difficult to read you. It was impossible to tell where the masks faded, and where Petyr Baelish began."

He is surprised at the cleverness of her interpretation of him as well as her honesty, _That is not something I come by often._ Even if he didn't like to admit it, Petyr understood his reputation as a man of schemes, a man not to be trusted, a fly in the ointment.

She continues, "But this man I have seen this past night, the one I'm looking at right now..." Sansa pauses a moment finding the words, "...Well, you are completely unexpected." She finally says decidedly.

He is quiet a moment, and then replies, " You must know by now, my sweetling, what it is to survive in King's Landing with your head." He says his knowing what he is implying as well as knowing it is rather a cruel way of making his point.

She inhales, and she breaks eye contact with him, swallowing heavily. He expects tears, but even though her face contorts into a pained expression, there is no wetness at her cheeks. Being at Joffrey's side all this time has her well practiced at the art of holding back tears.

He coaxes her, "No need to hide yourself with me, my love. I am no Lannister." Sansa returns her eyes to his, a knowing look spreads across her features.

Still, no tear falls down her cheek, and her voice is composed, "But you are their man." She states, and her face hardens, the uneasiness returns to her brow. It seems that reality has returned to her.

"Ah, but Sansa," he leans in, his lips almost grazing hers. He can feel her breath as she exhales, "You must look a little closer...Who's man am I really?"

With that, he turns from her and rises. His lean and graceful form standing now. Her eyes graze over him, and she blushes as she realizes her current predicament, the bliss from last night fully leaving her. When it all falls away, she's left in this moment with a man she realizes she knows nothing about. It was this awkward dance of intimacy and strangeness.

After all, their interactions were really quite brief before last night. She realizes she can count the number of times they even spoke privately on one hand, and even though it seems silly and naive now, she was so caught up in Joffrey, her father, and Loras, that she never thought on him after their conversations. It never dawned on her to pay more attention.

" I don't know you." She says matter-of-factly to his back. It was a private thought, and it formed itself into words without her permission.

He pulls his breeches up to his waist, and turns to face her.

"No one knows me, Sansa. And if I can help it, no one ever will." He replies abruptly, gazing down at her rigidly, no hint of the expression his face held for her in the moonlight.

Even though she knows it's ridiculous- _Really, what was I expecting?_- she is hurt by his words, and she does her best at willing the offended expression from her face. She sits up fully now, and holding the sheets to her breasts, she dangles her legs over the side of the bed. She turns her face towards the window, again trying to will the ceaseless tears away from her eyes, and keep her features calm.

Her efforts must have failed miserably because she can feel the heat of him silently rest beside her, and interrupting her movements, his fingers pull at her chin; gently but purposefully pulling her to face him.

She slowly gazes up at those green eyes, and they've changed again. (_I will never be able to read him. I'm a fool_) He must have regretted his previous harshness because his thin fingers come to the back of her neck and pull her to him, their faces inches apart. The closeness of him still unsettles her.

This is his apology.

He whispers, warmness returning to his voice, "What would you like to know?"

Sansa pauses a moment realizing she hasn't even given this any thought. Then it comes to her in a flash...

"Everything."

**Notes:**

Soooo, I don't think I'm fully happy with chapter, mainly the layout and dialogue...but it had to happen to further the story along. You can't just skip the awkwardness of the morning after, right?

Let me know what you think, and again, thanks for reading.

** While Florence will be making her appearance many more times, I'll be including stuff from other artists as well. I originally wanted it to strictly stick with F, but there's just too much good stuff out there for that. ;)


	5. Promise What You Will

"**Now the pale morning sings of forgotten things**

**She plays a tune for those who wish to overlook**

**The fact that they've been blindly deceived**

**By those who preach and pray and teach.**

**And I'm a goddamn coward, but then again so are you**

**And the lion's roar, the lion's roar"**

"No one knows me, Sansa. And if I can help it, no one ever will." She is meditating on his words as she threads her needle and thread through a white small cloth. She's embroidering her new initials onto it, along with a tiny mockingbird seated on top of the B. She still doesn't understand why anyone would want to go through their life without wanting to be known, or at least understood, by another person. Even after their awkward confrontation this morning, she was relieved that it had not seeped into their breakfast and the silence that passed between them now.

It's a warm afternoon, and she can feel the stagnant air draw the sweat from her brow and under her arms. Petyr sits quietly at a desk, ledgers and books spread across it. All sorts of people have visited him throughout the morning, and she was happy he let her stay in the room while he pertained to his duties. Even so, she was entirely shocked at how many responsibilities he had as the Master of Coin. He could add and subtract the most complex numbers within minutes, and it fascinated her considering mathematics was never the strongest of her talents. Stories, and history, languages, sewing, and music were the things that interested her. It was Arya who loved mathematics, politics, and wars. A memory leaps into her mind of Arya sitting at their table across from her, sticking out her tongue whenever she gets the chance. Her hair is wildly pulled into a braid the nape of her neck, and her dress is stained with dirt. She has a book of the history of Old Valyria hiding between the pages of poetry Septa Mordane had given them._ Gods, I miss Arya. Please, if she still lives, let her find happiness. Let her live a full life. Let her find love, and even if I never see her again, I shall be happy._

Now that Petyr was the man she was to be attached to for the rest of her life, she wished she had payed more attention to the latter for that seemed to be how his mind worked. She watched him now as his eyes were focused intently on a document, his brow was creased with concentration, and his lips were turned down seriously, gently moving as he whispered the words to himself.

Sansa decided she enjoyed watching him this way. He seemed his most relaxed, like this was where he belonged. She never thought her Lord Husband's mind would be at all important to her, but seeing this now made her proud to have someone so intellectually gifted. No, he wasn't a knight, or big and strong, but his weapon was his mind. She was sure, and had witnessed it, that he could outmaneuver anyone at court. Even Cersei and Varys sometimes were no match for him in their duel of wits._ Only if I could read that mind of his._

There's a knock at the door, and Petyr is startled from his concentration. Sansa can see he is slightly irritated at the intrusion. He clears his throat, "Come In."

It's one of Cersei's personal messengers, twitchy and uncomfortable,_ As anyone would be working under her steely glare._ He says with as much authority as he can muster, "The Queen wishes to speak with Lady Baelish."

It takes her a second to realize he is referring to her, and then she rises from her chair ungracefully, looking at Petyr with alarm. _What need would she have of me now?_ He nods for her to go, his face serious, but no alarm is present. Even if he is hiding his true thoughts, this comforts her. She decides if he appears not to be worried, she will muster up her courage, and face the serpent woman for one last time.

"As she wishes." Sansa says obediently slightly dropping her eyes to the floor. She walks over to him motioning she will follow.

"Attend your duties with haste, my sweet." He calls to her back his voice calm and too friendly, "We leave for the Eyrie the minute you return."

So it's the Eyrie we are heading to. Sansa never even thought to ask. She had hoped they might find their way to Winterfell, but she undoubtedly knew it was only girlish wishful thinking. Admittedly, the Eyrie is the last place she wished to be. The mere thought of it sent shivers down her spine. It hadn't been long since her Aunt Lysa had been pushed out of the moon door in which she had thrown so many others to their abysmal deaths. The murderer turned out to be her personal musician. According to rumors around court, their relationship was questionable. He never left her side, and was granted whatever he wanted. It hadn't occurred to her to ask Petyr about it before. He didn't seem overtly upset over the whole matter, but how can one have formed any attachment to someone they were married to (so obviously a business transaction) for such a brief amount of time? Sansa couldn't say her Aunt Lysa's death caused her any undue pain. She can picture her face, her mother's appealing Tully features drawn out across Lysa's high cheekbones into harsh planes plagued by paranoia and erratic mood swings. She was bulky and stumbling where her mother was lithe and graceful. Sansa had heard that after her husband, John Arryn, died her behavior became even more outlandish. She often terrified the members of her court. The fact that Petyr was even married to her, and shared her bed, caused a nauseous knot to form in the pit of her stomach.

The knot clenched tighter as she stepped closer and closer to Cersei's chambers. She had hoped yesterday was that last time she had to withstand the Queen Mother's presence, but to no avail. She sucked in her breath sharply as she approached her doors, and the messenger knocked sternly three times,

"Lady Baelish, Your Grace."

"Please, do come in." she says. Her voice is cheery, and it brings dread to Sansa's heart. She could feel her beguiling smile on her as she entered the room. The air was just as heavy and stifling in here, even with all the openness of the windows that framed the chair where she sat. It all became almost unbearable paired with the nervous heat rising up her back to her chest. Sansa thought she might faint there right in front of her. She was ashamed of her fear, and she forced it away.

"Good morning, Little Dove."

"It is a fine morning, Your Grace. Thank you." She nods her head in agreement and curtsies, willing her lips o smile.

" I trust your evening was... enjoyable?" She is smiling at her question, but her eyes are cold as ice.

"It was, Your Grace." Sansa replies.

"You are fully a woman now." She states matter-of-factly.

Sansa's eyes shoot to her shoes. She wishes to not speak of any of it. _Not to her._

"Please, Sansa, take a seat. I know that you are leaving this afternoon for the Eyrie," _How would she know that? _ "And I hoped we would go over our arrangement."

"What arrangement?" She asks her, fully confused now. Cersei looks across her desk at her as if she's a pest to be squashed.

"You didn't think you would be getting off that easy, my girl? Did you?" She brings her arms up to the table and rests them in front of her calmly. She is all business. Any hint of the courtesy she showed her when she was Joffrey's betrothed was gone now.

She continues her questions, her voice is collected and cold, her blue eyes reflect gray against the stone walls, and the deep hue of her wine-colored frock brings out the gold tones in her Lannister hair. She is glowing.

"How are you enjoying your time spent with Lord Baelish? I trust he tended to you well last night. It was all your guests could do but stifle their giggles at what was overheard from your chambers."_ I understand now why we were given such a magnificent room. Our lovemaking must have been heard throughout the entirety of the Red Keep._

Cersei continues, not noticing her pained expression. "There is many a man in King's Landing that would have loved to have their hand at piercing that fine flower of yours, but I trust Lord Baelish's whore-loving hands knew exactly how to coax such pleasure from you. I dare say, a man like that...I do wonder why he wanted such an inexperienced little bird like you."

Sansa blushes shamefully. Her cheeks burn with embarrassment. The tears with which she held back so expertly this morning are pushing vehemently at the backs of her eyes, and her throat contracts when she tries to swallow. Her mind is swimming in her mortification and it's all she can do to make her lips form words.

" I...we...," She almost chokes, but manages to say stupidly, "had a pleasant enough evening, Your Grace."

"Well, little dove, I don't wish to take any enjoyment away from you newlyweds, but this is something I've been meaning to share with you for quite some time now, and I think, as the only motherly figure in your life at present," she pauses to let this settle, " I believe it is my duty to warn you of anything that may cause you distress in the future."

Sansa's mind has calmed, and she is intently focussing on every one of Cersei's words. She can sense the blow that Cersei's "news" will have for her. She knows it is something that she has tucked away somewhere for safe keeping, until this opportune moment arose where she can cause her the most pain. Her heart sinks at the realization. The feeling of being released from Lannister's ferocity was nothing but a guise. It was a picture she had painted to make her think one thing was happening, when in fact it was something entirely different.

She asks her question forcefully, projecting her voice as confidently as possible, "And what warning could you have for me, Your Grace?"

She takes a sip of her wine, slowly savoring it in her mouth and swallowing. "Let me tell you the story about your father. You see, Little Dove, your father came to King's Landing with his honorable Northern sensibilities. He truly believed that in the end, with honesty, honor, and the truth, that the Iron Throne would fall into the rightful heir. Your people believe this is the way of the wolrd. And you see, on that fateful day, when your father stood before Joffrey and I with a piece of paper signed by my late Lord Husband," she laughs sarcastically at the absurdity of it all, "He thought a single piece of paper would garner his protection. Ned assumed he had the trust of a certain mockingbird, all because of some conceived notion of unrequited love between him and his wife."

Sansa's heart is pounding now and her body is shaking. She can feel the tears have escaped and are gliding down her cheeks. She can taste them on her lips as she bites so hard that it bleeds. All the past moments between Petyr and her are racing through her mind, and she sees them in a clear light._ How could I have been so blind? How could I think this could have been an ending where I would be content. You stupid little girl._

Cersei continues, her smile broadening into a deeply cruel beam as she sees the realization and horror creep into Sansa's eyes. She is a predator who has her prey in its clenches, but waits for the kill even as it squirms and screams under her piercing talons.

Then she thrusts them deep into her heart, "But who do you think it was that turned the City's Watch on your father? Who do you think held a knife to his throat as those Watchmen killed his men in front of his eyes? I am afraid to say it, Little Bird...but the untimely downfall of Noble Ned Stark can only be attributed to none other than Your Lord Husband."

Sansa wills it to stop. She can't speak. A scream is building inside her, but her lips will not form the words, she has lost all her voice, and all her fight. Any sense of dignity she might have had left as a Stark or as a woman has been crushed in Cersei's fist. _The bloodless cunt couldn't have planned this any better. She has stolen all my chances away, and there is no other option for me other than to crawl like a snake in the grass back into her clutches_. Sansa's heart is breaking, and all her strength breaks with it. It has been crushed; squeezed out of her. There is nothing left, and in this moment, she wishes she could join her father in his restful peace.

"Now, now, Sansa, my dear. Everything is going to be fine. You don't think I have thought on this for a long while now?"

_Of course you have._

"You see, I couldn't tell you this information sooner. It had to be this way. Petyr Baelish is too clever. He would have seen anything else coming. It would have been too obvious for him, and he would have won. Now, you can be the master of your revenge. You can carry out what needs to be done for the good of the realm. And when your task is complete, you will return to King's Landing and be named Lady of Winterfell. You see, my love, our debts will be paid. Winterfell will belong to you, and your future heirs, forever."

Sansa's breath catches in her throat, and she tries not to choke. The blue of her eyes is still radiant even as they turn swollen and red. She stares at Cersei. She would do anything to return to Winterfell. _How could I ever think he was my key to getting there?_

She sniffs back her tears, and straightens, resting her hands calmly in her lap. She is higher than Cersei when she arches her back straight. She steadies her voice and asks,

"And I will never be bothered by you or any other Lord for as long as I live?"

"Of course, Winterfell will be yours, and the Lannister's will break all ties with it and the surrounding villages. There would be no attachment between our Houses any longer."

She sits quietly for a moment, staring at her with contempt and suspicion. She is till trying to take this all in, but decides she must not think, but act. She must be strong, like her father and mother, and Robb, and Arya. She must be faithful to them, and to Winterfell. And to the North. She realizes now that this is her only loyalty. It is the only thing she can be certain of, and it is the thing that matters.

Sansa gazes her directly in the eye, both their eyes steely and calculating, and she asks,"What must I do?"

"Oh, it is simple my girl. The only thing that stands before you and Winterfell is Petyr Baelish." She pauses briefly to highlight her point, "As soon as I receive word of his death, you may think of yourself as Head of House Stark, and Lady Paramount of the North. You will rule, and no longer shall you be my Little Dove."


	6. You're an Angry Blade

"**Seems that I have been held, in some dreaming state,**

**A tourist in the waking world, never quite awake.**

**No kiss, no gentle word could wake me from this slumber**

**Until I realize that it was you who held me under.**

**Felt it in my fist, in my feet, in the hollows of my eyelids**

**Shaking through my skull, through my spine and down through my ribs.**

**No more dreaming of the dead as if death itself was undone.**

**No more calling like a crow for a boy, for a body in the garden.**

**No more dreaming like a girl so in love, so in love.**

**No more dreaming like a girl so in love with the wrong world.**"

Standing outside the great doors to their wedding suite, Sansa lifts her hand up to the doorknob, and spots it trembling violently. Her tummy is fluttering, and it takes all her strength to keep the bile from creeping up her throat. Cersei's details about her Lord Husband's betrayal won't leave her mind, but she has no idea what to do about it. _Should I stomp in there with these accusations, or maybe let it play out keeping calm and collected?_ She is confused, and tired already of playing this game. It's takes all her strength not to break down and cry.

As she finally forces her fingers to turn the knob, he appears in the doorway. It seems he was leaving because surprise rushes over his face, and he smiles when he realizes its her.

"Sansa, what are you doing out here?" he asks kindly. "I thought you were with the Queen. I was just coming to fetch you. The hour grows late, and it's time we left."

"She is finished with me," she states, her words coming out shaky and with none of the calmness she would have liked.

He rests his hand on her shoulder ever so lightly guiding her into the room. It burns into her skin. She doesn't want his hands anywhere near her. When they enter she notices all their belongings have been packed and sent away.

The door shuts faintly behind her, and then she can feel his heat at her back. His fingers come up to the nape of her neck, and brush her hair over her shoulder exposing the skin to the cool air. She wishes he would leave her be, but her body responds against her will. He places a soft kiss on the skin there, and it sends shivers down her spine, and to her secret place. In her mind she is screaming, but her body will not listen. She is sickened with herself that it's even happening with this man, this reached, calculating man. She is shocked at the naivety of her wishes, _I really thought that this man may have cared for me in the slightest way. How could I have thought a happy marriage might be a possibility for me? He is just like the rest of them, out for only himself, and I am only a pawn in his game. A piece to be toyed with until he no longer has need of me. _

Another butterfly kiss, and the shivers magnify to throbs. The ache in her body causes her to lean her backside into him slightly, and she can hear his breath catch in her ear. She's ashamed of her behavior. _What would Father think?_ She asks herself, but she is afraid of the answer.

"No." she sighs suddenly, her mind finally able to pull the reins on her body.

"No?" He questions, now stepping back from her. He pulls her around to face him, and she's staring into those emerald pools, they are dark and wanting. Her hand brushes up against his chest pushing lightly against the tautness there. She wishes she had a dagger, as she would thrust it into his heart, and watch that life fade from those magnetic, lying eyes. Whoever it was that first marred him had the right idea. If they had succeeded her father would still be alive. Sansa means to find out the truth behind that scar before her task is completed.

"Is there something a miss, my sweet?" Sansa tries not to cringe at his affectionate name, but manages to keep her face neutral and her voice steady and innocent, " It's just that...I thought you said we must be going, Ser."

A broad, sardonic smile plays across his lips causing his dimple to crease on his cheek, and she swears she catches a glimpse of knowing reach his eyes. _He's figured me out already_, she thinks nervously.

And then it's gone, "Ah, you are quite right Sansa. It is late, and the horses wait for us. The Queen kept you too long I'm afraid, but nevertheless we must leave tonight. It's unfortunate for you and I, but I gave my word. We must hold up our end of the deal."

"What deal, my Lord?"

His smile fades now, and his features grow serious, " If I was to have you as my wife, we were to leave King's Landing as soon my affairs were complete. We aren't to come back you know. Yours, as well as my, life here is over."

She knows. It was one of the reasons marrying him became bearable, and she looked forward to leaving this treacherous place. Alas, this is not her path. She will return to King's Landing and continue to be the Lannister's play thing for the rest of her unfortunate life. Even so, she looks up at him directly, hiding the bitterness from her countenance.

"Honestly," She states, "it was one of the high points of becoming your wife. I am glad to be rid of this reached city, and all the people in it."

"I'm glad I could be of service." He replies, one side of his lips raising scornfully. Then without warning he kisses her fully and passionately on the lips. His arms are around her pulling her to him briskly, and she is fully aware of his body. Sansa is so surprised (and repulsed) by his advances that by the time she remembers to respond he's pulled away, leaving her feeling more cold and alone than ever.

It feels as if they've been riding for days, and Sansa sits in her saddle pouting like a child. The sun has tucked itself away behind the mountains, but the sky is still dimly burning on the edge of its black peaks. She turns her face up to the atmosphere and stares as the rest of the sky fades to red, and then purple, and then blue. The stars are starting to appear, and with each time she faces upwards, more dot the sky blinking at her in greeting. The frogs and the crickets are singing their nighttime song, happy for the dampness left over from the rains a few days past. Even with the warmth of the afternoon, the air is muggy and cool, and she can feel a slight chill in her toes._ I wish I wore warmer socks_, she thinks feeling the cold creep into her boots, and up her thighs.

Petyr rides in front of her, his back straight in his saddle. His body gracefully sways with the movements of his horse, and he hasn't spoken a word since they've left King's Landing. Nor has he turned his head back at her to even see if she still rides with him. Just behind her, she can hear the gentle rolling of the wagon wheels. Two servants man the front, and their luggage is piled high secured by heavy rope. Sansa aches for Shae's presence, and she is saddened for having to leave her behind, the reasons unknown to her. She would have been a great comfort to her in the dreary Eyrie, and she could always count on her advice. She always warned her about Petyr and Sansa finally understands why. Now that she's without it she will have to find her way completely on her own.

Petyr stops his horse, and her stately white mare stops instinctively behind him, lulling her from her thoughts.

He turns in his saddle looking very weary and says, " It is getting too dark. There's a tavern not far up this road with rooms. We'll stay there tonight, and continue our journey at first light."

He doesn't wait for a response, and slaps his reins leading the horse on. She had hoped they would ride though the night, but she knows that it's too dangerous. With all the goods they're carrying they couldn't hope to get much further without being robbed on the road to the Eyrie. It's just that she can already feel the close confines of the inn room, with it's small mattress and even smaller living quarters. There will be no escaping his heat,his eyes, or his hands. She'll have to pass water in front of him, she'll have to dress and undress, and bathe in the morning. Fear springs up into her heart.

They continue on slowly, and Sansa loses track of the hour. The woods surround them engulfing their horses in darkness, and the frogs are so deafening she can't hear her mare's hoof prints. The trees rustle in the wind, and she stares blankly into the black forest. Her eyes are playing tricks on her, and she startles as she sees movement in the brush, but when she looks again nothing is there.

Finally, in the distance she can see lights shimmering. As they approach an uproarious song can be heard from inside. After dismounting her horse, she looks up at the sign. It's called The Wolf's Den and she smiles inwardly. A gold carving of a wolf holding a pheasant is mortared to the wood. The bird's head hangs limply in its jaws. _Maybe this is an omen for good things to come_, she thinks happily.

Though, as soon as they enter the doorway of the rotting place her courage leaves with the wind blowing her skirts around her legs. It's dark, and has a putrid smell from the rancid beer on the floor, and sticks to her shoes as she walks. In the center of the room there's a huge hearth, a fire the size of a pregnant sow cracking loudly. The tables are crowded with men, some sitting fireside for warmth, others with women on their laps grabbing intimately at their thighs. Their singing starts to fade as they notice her, and Sansa can feel their eyes scorch into her skin. It's so obvious they are from King's Landing, and she feels she should have changed into a simpler dress. Petyr motions for her to sit in a chair far away from the crowd against the wall, and she is glad it will allow her to sit near the door.

"Stay here." He says, and motions off before she can ask any questions.

She watches him walk over to the bar, a stocky man with a receding hairline shaved close to his head is tending to the dirty tankards, and looking at him suspiciously. Petyr leans across the bar, and they speak for a moment. He curtly nods, and then motions towards stairs at the back of the room.

Satisfied, Petyr returns to her, "He has a room available, and he says the servants can sleep in the loft in the stables."

He grabs her arm gently helping her from her chair, and leads her to the staircase, never letting his hand leave her back. It's as if he wishes to have her away from these people as soon as possible. Part of her is thankful, _They would eat me alive._

They head up the claustrophobic, rickety stairwell and around a tight bend to an even tighter hall. One lantern at the end of the hall is the only light, and she can hear the intimate sounds no one should hear come from the doors on either side of her. Some women let out cries, others soft mews, and others violent screams which terrify her. She blushes fiercely, and she is glad she walks behind Petyr so he can't see her. The last door is theirs, and he fiddles with the lock for a moment. Sansa is jittery, and she wants to shove him into the door if it will get her out of this hall. Finally, he has freed the lock.

Sansa is relieved for the room is not as horrible as she imagined. It smells musty with the hint of something fouler, and it's dim. The candle he holds is the only flickering light, casting ghoulish shadows against the walls. But there's a window (which Petyr immediately opens), and a dressing table with a clean chamber pot and bathing pitcher. The fresh air climbs slowly into the room, and she sits facing the wall on the small and low wood-framed bed removing the boots from her aching feet. Straw sticks into her backside uncomfortably, but she is happily surprised to find the linens are clean (clean enough anyway). The floorboards creak as she hears Petyr cross the room towards the bed. He sits on the other side of it and places the candle at his bedside table. She hears his boot hit the floor with a thud, and then another. Not a word. The air is thick with their silence, and she clears her throat just to make sure her ears are working.

Sansa sighs, and stands. She removes her summer's cloak and then unhooks the front of her gown. It's such a relief as the damp, heavy fabric falls from her shoulders. She is left in her shift, and it sticks to her, wet with sweat and the ghastly humidity that still clings to the earth even after the storm rolled north days ago. The realization she has to sleep next to him stops her in her tracks, and she stands stupidly next to the bed. She can't decide what to do. Either she gets into bed wearing her damp tunic or removes it. She can't make up her mind, so she still stands, weighing her options. She's so caught up in her decision, she doesn't even notice Petyr hasn't moved since removing his boots and heavy socks.

"Are you just going to stand there all night, my girl?" he asks still facing away from her. His voice is hoarse with weariness, and colder than the blades of ice that hang from Winterfell's walls.

She's can't move. Her nerves cause her fists to clench and unclench in anticipation. Her mind is racing, and she can't force herself to make a decision.

He unclasps his dagger and holster from around his waist setting it carefully next to the candle. _I wonder if I could step over there in the night smoothly enough as not to wake him._ An image forces itself into her mind, Petyr still in the position he sleeps, but his scar now formed into a T, his throat is exposed, and a deep crimson pool of blood cascades around him like a cloak. She revels again in the thought of his eyes looking out at her, dull with lifelessness.

Still she watches him. He's calmly pulling off his doublet, and she hears the movement of cloth as he undoes each lace and clasp. His tunic is just as wet as hers and she can see the pale skin of his back tightly stretch across the points of his shoulder blades. They roll up forming sharp peaks as he lifts his arms to pull it over his head.

The plains of his back spread out as he stretches to remove it. She watches the trail of his shoulders, down to his ribs which sway in waves as he moves, and follows it to the narrowness of his hips. The intimacies of marriage are just as new to her now as the previous night, and she feels the burn return to her cheeks immediately. Hot, angry tears stream down her face, and she wipes them away quickly when he finally turns to her. Her eyes instinctively move up and down the scar at his chest, and his body glimmers from the sweat and oppressiveness of the air. They stare intently at each other across the bay of snowy sheets, but even this cannot fill the void that is present between them now. Neither will surrender in this silent duel.

The flicker of the candlelight causes his green eyes to light up like the sea had been lit aflame by wildfire. He was impenetrable, his features never displaying any emotion one way or the other. She feels fatuous trying to face him, and knows her face reveals everything. She remembers his words that day he had caught her rejoicing in being cast aside by Joffrey, _Look around you. We're all liars here, and everyone one of us is better than you._

The memory fully reminds her how far she's out of her depth. Sansa's heart beats rapidly as she musters up her courage speaking out into the silence,

"Tell me how you got that scar?" His eyes linger on hers, his body still as ever, but his lips curve into that boyish smile she liked so much...before.

"And that's the question that has kept you so quiet, my sweetling?" Petyr asks, his voice smooth and hushed. Her eyes drop to the floor, _He knows I am hiding_, and then she gazes back up at him stubbornly questioning.

"Well, Sansa," he growls her name, " 'Tis a tale of woe to be sure." He saunters around the edge of the bed towards her. Instinctively, she backs up, but there's nowhere to go. She feels the chill of the plaster wall against her back. He's upon her now, and her senses are overtaken with the polarity of his heat and her cold fighting against each other.

"Tell me the story." She says again firmly staring up at him, never folding under his scrutiny.

He pauses to find the words and then says very quietly, "I once told you your mother was my queen of beauty." She remembers now the fist time she saw him, when she noticed his green eyes that never reflected his smile. He sat too closely to her, their arms touching indecently, and she remembers her father's lips forming into a hard line staring at him with distaste. While it was happening she never realized in her naivety the undertones. Petyr was testing him.

"Yes." She replies.

"Well," his hand is over her shoulder now resting on the plaster, and he leans in so close she can see the gold specks glowing in the inner circles of his irises, their noses almost touching.

"When I was a boy, you see, I was her greatest companion, she told me all her secrets, all her dreams." his voice is barely a whisper now. "We'd play in the woods from sunup till sundown. I was always in love with Cat since the day I set eyes on her. I realize that now." His eyes leave hers and settle on her lips and to her chin whilst his finger graze down the trail of her jaw, and then settle at her neck. He clasps her gently with his hand. "And when we grew a little older, when she was promised to another. Now I know you've never met this strong and brave uncle, but he was surely a brutal man. And do you know what I did, my sweetling?"

Her breath has quickened, and she's staring up at him, a look of fear and anticipation spread across her face. She nods slightly urging him on, in spite of her want to kick at him, and scream out.

"_You_ know my sweetling. You've read all the stories, same as I. And in the stories, the little man always defeats the big one doesn't he? I challenged him to a duel, and when I was on the ground with a sword to my throat, she looked at me, a sincere look of pity pouring out of those big Tully eyes, "He's just a boy, Please don't kill him" she said. So he gave me a warning so that I would always remember what I am, and who I would never be." He's motioning to his scar, the bitterness dripping off his words. He moves into her even more now, the hard burning of his frame melting against her, and her knees quiver.

Sansa feels like she is being torn in two, one part of her wants to slit his throat, and get the revenge on the man that caused her father's downfall. The other is pulsing inside of her, refusing to be kept caged, and she's overcome with a sense of urgency to know the meaning behind this man's game.

Her face contorts into an anguished sneer, and the tears fall freely. She is weary, and can't bear the thought of not knowing anymore. Her voice disdainfully cracks as she asks, " So _this_ is why you did it? Because a man who never harmed you had a brother that taught you a lesson?"

His eyes change now into full understanding, and his grip loosens from her neck, but doesn't leave it. He's still as close as before, but he brings his face down to fully look into her eyes. She recedes further from him (if she can), wishing she could fade into the wall.

"Your father was too righteous for his own good." He says, "I tried to warn him what would happen if he didn't play the game. I _begged_ him. He brought on his own misfortunes. If it wasn't me who pulled the dagger it would have been another. His fate would have been the same." She shoves him off of her with a mangled cry, and to her surprise he yields, stepping away. His lean shoulders are limp, and his brow presses into uneasy creases.

'But I couldn't go down with that ship, Sansa. I chose to live another day, and if that met choosing the Lannister's, so be it. Nobody thought that Joffrey would release his wrath so strongly on your father."

Without thinking, she suddenly and viscously slaps him across his cheek. She can feel her hand tingle after with the contact, and an angry flaming mark appears on his face. For a moment, he holds his hand to his cheek in surprise, and then he's gently cupping her face in his hands.

"But I fought for _you_, Sansa. I made it possible for you to leave King's Landing forever, and you refused me. Did you really think I didn't know this would happen? You think I'm blind enough to believe Cersei would give me what I had wanted _so badly_ without a price to pay?" His hands clench into fists at her hair, and he's got her strongly in his grips. She pulls at his arms, but he's unrelenting.

And then it dawns on her as his words sink in deeply.

She relaxes under his grip, "I'm trapped." she says pleadingly, more to herself than him, and he notes the defeat in her eyes. Then he's on her more passionately than ever, kissing her fully, his tongue greedily trying to connect with hers. She can taste the mint on him, and the smell of incense lingers on his skin. She can feel the familiar drumming in the deepest part of her, and this causes a rage to take hold. She fights him, her fists pounding at his chest and shoulders violently, a wretched, "No!" leaves her lips, her cheeks now drenched and glistening with tears.

His hands defensively grab her wrists tearing them from him, the skin at his chest red and raw. Then he shoves her arms up against the wall, "But don't you see it, Sansa?" he gasps heavily, his hot breath cascading over her face. She looks up at him searching the meaning in his eyes. They are as serious and honest as she's ever known them to be, "**This is your freedom.**"

"How can that be?" She spits vehemently up at him. "How am I to survive Queen Cersei, and the entire Lannister family when you are still alive?" Her anger is overwhelming, and she begins to struggle as she sees those thin lips turn up into that familiar, artful grin,

"Aah, my sweet, but how can I kill the Queen Reagent if I am dead?"

She relaxes into him, "You?" she asks in shock.

"What?" he says as his lips brush hers, " You think I, of all people, accepted this marriage, solely because I loved you?"

_Love?_ This stops her a moment as the steam of her anger leaves her, and she stares up at him obtusely. She wants him to stop. She wants to push him away, and demand an explanation. A part of her still wishes to slit his throat for playing her like a piece, for aiding the Lannister's in her father's demise, for plotting, and scheming, and whoring, and all the other unsavory things that make him Littlefinger.

But his body crashes into hers ferociously, and he's grabbing her hair, and kissing her lips, and pulls her at the backs of her thighs wrapping her legs around him, and she's overcome with such desire that she can't think of anything but his hot skin as he presses against her. Her nipples form into hard peaks as they brush against the starched cotton of her shift, and she wishes to be free of it. She rips it over her head in one swift motion, and then wraps her arms around his neck pulling him violently closer to her, her mouth crashing into his, their tongues dancing.

She feels the hardness of his cock against her soft swell, and moan's longingly into his ear. Her hips buck into his, and he returns the gesture.

Suddenly, she's away from the wall. He turns her around and fluidly throws her onto the bed. It creaks and groans with her weight, the hay sticking into her back, but she doesn't care because her need is so strong it overpowers her every thought. _All that is in this moment is him._

He is free of his breaches, grabs her from behind her knees, and abruptly pulls her to meet him, his fingers digging into her skin. Without warning, he drives his firm flesh deep within her letting out an uninhibited cry of satisfaction. The pain of his intrusion subsides more quickly this time, and as he penetrates deeper, it gives way to an extreme rhythmic pleasure. She arches up to meet each possessive thrust, and grabs at his back. He writhes into her with a frenzy she hadn't experienced before, and she's overcome with pleasure and hatred, a push and pull she can't contain.

Her hand violently comes up to his face thrashing against his skin for a second time. She's surprised by her actions, and freezes up for a moment not knowing what to expect. He stares down at her, but his eyes grow blacker than ever, and she shrieks as he emphatically turns her over and grabs at her hips forcefully. She moans at his touch, and realizes it sends vibrations of pleasure through the course of her entire body. He pulls her to him, and she can feel his hardness brushing between her thighs, her rear rubbing against his pelvis pleasurably. She feels his fingers clutch at the soft doughiness of her of hips, and he's delved himself deep inside her, his hardness pressing at the most sensitive spot within her walls. His strokes increase, violent and thundering at first, and erratic, heavy moans leave her with each violent thrust. Then she feels his hand leave her side, and crash down loudly on her backside with a ringing slap!

The air is forced out of her lungs at the shock, pain, and pleasure which forms itself into one pulsating burn that races to her nub, and she cries out a scream as she convulses around him. He moans deeply when he feels her overwhelming spasms, and his arm flies around her front, pulling her back to him. He's kissing her neck, thrusting himself deeply within her until he let's out a harsh groan, his cock pulsating into a shattering release. They collapse on their sides, arms and legs entangled, and sleep captures Sansa before her bitterness overwhelms their desire.

**Notes:**

Not really sure about it. They kinda just did what they wanted, and it wasn't really where I had planned on taking the plot, but OH WELL!

Let me know how you like. Thanks again for reading!

Enjoy!

**I kinda reiterated Petyr's backstory from the show. I take no writing credits.


	7. Dearest Forsaken

"**How fickle my heart and how woozy my eyes.**

**I struggle to find any truth in your lies.**

**And now my heart stumbles on things I don't know.**

**My weakness I feel I must finally show.**

**Lend me your hand and we'll conquer them all,**

**But lend me your heart and I'll just let you fall"**

Sansa wakes with a startle. She sits up on her elbow and glances around her, puzzled at her whereabouts for a moment. The grayness of morning is upon them, but it is still very early, and the room is dark. The silent flicker of candlelight catches her eye, now almost snuffed, as it casts shadows on the low ceiling. No one is awake in the entire place, and it's quiet with sleep. She turns when she notices his breathing behind her. It comes in deep waves, and she can feel it breeze down her back, causing her to shiver. While they slept, his arm was stretched out around her ribs and his hand rested just below her cheek. She could feel the smoothness of the skin of the back of his palm, and the faint smell of lemons from his hand salve.

Still sitting up, Sansa turns her body to face him. He shifts quietly as she does so. She enjoys watching him sleep and is surprised at his vulnerability. None of his ambiguous expressions taint his features, and his lips rest in a relaxed line. In the dawn light she can see the outline of his aquiline nose, and the bruise starting to blacken across the fineness of his cheekbone. As she watches him the thought of his neck sliced open and angry, and his warm blood pouring out staining the palms of her hands anxiously races into her mind. She pushes furiously away at the thought. She refuses to let her anger and pain cloud her judgment. (As well as ruin this quiet moment.)_ If I am going to exact my revenge on Cersei, I'll need him on my side. _She gently caresses his skin in atonement where the bloody bruise swells. He reflexively flinches, and his eyes rush open to meet hers. The confusion of first waking is present there, and she revels in his unguarded exposure.

It is something she's never witnessed in him before, and it makes here realize the advantages, other than of the flesh, that the intimacies of marriage bring. Maybe, one day, I'll be able to read that mind of his, she thinks hopefully.

"Why are you up?" He whispers, his voice hoarse with slumber. His forehead creases with concern. He turns on his back to face her.

"I don't know." She replies, "I just startled is all."

He clears his throat and his eyes glance at the window, "What time is it?"

"Very early, but I think first light is hours away." She says quietly.

Petyr groans softly turning over onto his side again, and she recognizes his dismay at being awake. His arm bends pushing into the down pillow, and he rests his head against the inside of his elbow. His other hand comes up to her tenderly grabbing at her shoulder, and he guides her back down to rest her face in the crook of his neck. She breathes him in full and deep now, noting the smell of lemons, the cedar of his chest of drawers, as well as his musty incense. She can feel the boniness of his clavicle and chest, and runs her fingertips through the softness of the hair that lightly spreads across it. She hesitates for only a moment at the raised ridge of his scar. Relaxing into him, Sansa curls her arms up at her chest, letting his feverish heat warm her chilled fingers and nose. The open window has made the room cool, and the dampness in the air only magnifies her chill. He seems unaffected, and she wonders how a man can run so hot.

"Sansa" Petyr whispers. "...Sansa." She grumbles loudly as he lightly shakes her awake. "The sun is here, my sweetling. It's time we moved on."

She makes no motion to move, so he grabs at the fine point of her shoulder, and pulls her to face him. She's still lost in her dreams, but she studies him. He has shaved, and combed his hair, and he feels a smile pull at his lips as her eyes settle on the cut he tended to earlier. It no longer bleeds, and the slice is not deep, but the bruise has darkened, and it is painful to the touch.

"Tis nothing Sansa. It will heal." He assures her.

She sits up finally; the sheets fall to her waist and the plump softness of her belly folds into dunes as she bends. Her nipples harden with the dewy morning air.

"I must bathe." She says gently massaging her lower back. She is not used to such mattresses, and it must ache.

"'Very well, my lady, but be quick about it. The pitcher still has some clean water left." He says, still smiling, _You are a fool, Petyr Baelish._

He woke over an hour ago, and he's since bathed, dressed, and gone downstairs to see about food as well as saddle the horses. She never stirred even as he stood in the middle of the room, naked as his name day, and dropped the hard soap he had brought. It fell with a deafening thump, and slid across the floorboards. Nothing but her light snores could be heard from the bed, a pillow thrown over her head, and her long, burning hair tumbling out from underneath it chaotically. She's on her stomach, and the sheets graze just above the slight valley of her rear. He enjoys letting his eyes travel up and down the lean muscles of her back. Her arms are spread out above her, and one foot sticks off the edge of the bed. She's a wildling in her sleep, he thinks. It was all he could do but fall into a fit of laughter.

Now, he rests himself in the corner, where a high-back chair awaits him as he coughs back a chuckle. He glances out the window at the trees, and he can see the cardinal sunrise intensely smolder behind them. Every few minutes, he watches a greasy, half drunk man stumble his way down the muddy road, home to the wife and children he left. The clank of the porcelain pitcher causes him to turn towards her. Sansa is finally out of bed, and he watches her standing at the dressing table, her back to him. She's all legs and elbows, and exceptionally tall for her age. But in spite of her lankiness her womanly form is burgeoning, and there is a softness appearing at her hips, belly, and thighs. He admires her as she washes, and he knows her cheeks are burning with embarrassment. Even as he can see the pink flush reach her ears and neck she shivers with the gray cold of the room. He had almost yelped with shock when he touched his toes to the hawkish floorboards in the early morning, and he swore he could almost see his breath. The summer is fading, and the nights get cooler and brisk as autumn approaches. The Starks are right about one thing: Winter **is** coming.

Sansa gently washes her face, then her neck, down under her delicate breasts. She slowly, but purposely moves the cloth to her underarms where a scant spread of flaming hair peaks out, and follows down the curve of her waist. Then hesitating slightly, she breathes out and washes the warm place between her thighs. The water drips down the long lines of her legs and pools at her feet. His eyes bask in her body as it bends and straightens, her hair is illuminated by the red sky as it falls over her face. He can feel the slight twinge of desire play at his prick. He wishes to sit her on that dressing table, and fuck her right there. Unfortunate for him, there is no time for it. They must make their way to the Eyrie before nightfall. So his eyes yearningly linger on her for a moment longer, and then he continues to watch the sun as it shyly greets him from the edge of the Earth.

They ride ahead of the servants, and Sansa's ass hurts from sitting in her saddle all day. The wind burns her cheeks as they gallop across the rocky hills of the meadow. She can see the Eyrie in the distance, and its round peak is hidden in the fog. The cliffs start to come upon them, and she tries not to glance down. The castle in the sky is the last place she really wants to go with its gloominess and Aunt Lysa's death looming over them. She's brooding over the fact that she has to see her annoying cousin Robert, and she still doesn't trust that her happiness has anything to do with Petyr's endgame. What if he hides me here and I'm never able to leave, and I'm trapped here for Cersei to find? I need to see Winterfell just one more time. I can't be stuck in this awful place with a man I don't trust. Last night may have been my biggest mistake. I gave too much away, as always. So stupid, Sansa. From here on out, you must keep yourself to yourself.

Anxiety raids her body like the plague, and her knees quiver in anticipation. For what she can't be sure, but she feels a dread fall over her that she can't shake.

When they arrive at the Eyrie's gates, sitting on the bridge overlooking nothing but clouds, Sansa has to remind herself to breathe. Petyr dismounts his horse nimbly, and looks up at her with a pleasant smile as his hand comes to aid her off. Her thighs are intensely sore from straddling her mare all day, and her lips are cracked with thirst. She retrieves her newly embroidered handkerchief from her pocket, and wipes the sweat from her brow. It comes away black with dust and filth from the road. She looks at the gates hoping their luggage has magically caught up to them. She grimaces like a child when she realizes they will not arrive until nightfall, and she desperately yearns for a clean dress.

"Come, my sweet. We shall get you something to eat." He says lifting an elbow for her to take hold of. He guides her through a dark passage, and up a lengthy flight of stairs. By the time they reach the top they both suck for air in ragged breaths. He leads her into the High Hall, which oddly is round with large open windows that look out at nothing but sky. The walls are painted Tully blue which makes the room appear as if it is floating. A giant piece of weirwood has been crafted into a throne, and Sansa can imagine Lysa perched high up there in that fearsome seat. She must have been quite a site with her anxious eyes piercing through you, and fragile Robert suckling at her breast. She was never the beauty her mother was, and her mind had always been tainted; even Sansa can remember that from her childhood. She can't remember the last time she had even seen her aunt though, and she wishes she had been able to be with her one last time before her untimely death. The rumors of her unstable nature and unconventional parenting habits are really the only thing she's ever known about her. It is said that Lord Robert inherited all her less desirable qualities as well which only adds to her uneasiness about meeting him again. She is surprised Petyr willingly came here to live, and there is no doubt in her mind that he had some part to play in her death. Even if it only consisted of a prayer (_like he prays_) for her demise, she could see why he wanted to escape this dungeon in the sky that was run by a mad woman.

There was one reason to take comfort in staying here, and that was that it was said to be impenetrable (_Much like the man who currently protects it) _Even if the Lannister's decide they wish her dead, they would never try it so long as she stayed here. It was too risky to attack this castle, and hope to come away with some of your men_. I expect that's why he chose this as our temporary home._ Her eyes glance at the moon door, and she shudders violently. She finds it kind of ironic that this is how her Aunt met her fate. She was notorious for throwing people to the sky for even the smallest slight against her.

"Hmmm," Petyr interrupts her thoughts, "I do wonder where all the servants are." She looks around now, and realizes no one has come to even greet them, not even the squire boy to assist with coats.

He pauses a moment, and then grabbing her hand leads her down a dark corridor, and they stop at a heavy door with a falcon's head as a doorknob.

As he leads her in she realizes it's the solar. There are books piled everywhere in tall stacks, and the furniture has been covered in thick white cloths. The fireplace is ashy and unlit, and the room is cold. She can feel the coolness of the stone in her socks as it seeps through the thinness of her boots. He pulls at a white cloth shaking it violently to remove the dust, and motions for her to sit in a chair. As he does so, she hears quick footsteps rushing up the hall.

A short, middle aged woman enters the room. She has blonde hair pulled neatly into a high braided bun, and her eyes are a deep, chocolate brown. They look at her, and then to Petyr's back anxiously.

"Oh! m' Lord! We were expecting you yesterday! No one sent any word that you would be arriving late, so we assumed you were detained in King's Landing."

He rolls his eyes to Sansa, never giving anything away to the woman, "Never mind, my dear, we are here now. And I would like you to meet my new wife, Sansa of House Stark." He says stepping out of the way so the woman can see her. Her eyes study hers intensely for a moment before she remembers herself, and gives her best gracious smile. Sansa can't tell if she is surprised by her youth, or if she notices a resemblance to her Aunt. Both notions cause her embarrassment, and she flushes a deep red_. I must be so ridiculous_, she thinks. But then she remembers that she is in fact Petyr's lady wife, and she must get used to the idea. She also must make others see her as his equal.

"Well, Malina," Petyr interrupts the awkward silence. "Can you please send one of the kitchen maids to light a fire, and undo the rest of the furniture? We'll take our feast in here, as soon as possible. I'm afraid Sansa is quite parched." _Great, now I am an annoying little wench._ "I'm quite fine for now," she lies. "Please. Take your time."

The woman looking quite put out stares at her sternly, and says to Petyr, "M' Lord, there is something of great importance that I need to speak with you about."

Her turns from Sansa now, hearing the alarm in her voice. When he faces her, fear overwhelms her steely eyes and Sansa can see her clenching her fists in discomfort.

"What can it be, Malina? Is something amiss?" He steps towards her now. She has gained his full attention.

"It's just that…it may be better to speak privately, m' Lord."

Petyr looks at her, and sighs in irritation now, "Anything you can say to me, you can say in my wife's presence. We keep no secrets." _That's a lie_, Sansa thinks staring at him, and she wonders if he can feel her eyes boring into his back.

Malina sways nervously from foot to foot, and her eyes fall to the floor, "Well, it's just that…it's the Little Sweetrobin, m' Lord."

"What about him?" He asks.

"Well, he's been ill for sometime. He grew weaker and weaker as the days past. We all thought it was just one of his spells, but he lost his fight this time. He's with the Gods now." Her face coils up into a pained expression, and a tear falls down her cheek.

'What?" Petyr says, now in complete shock. His hands fall helplessly at his side, and his shoulders go limp.

"I'm sorry m, Lord!" she spits out in a desperate tone. "We sent a Raven two days ago to tell you the news, but it must have reached King's Landing after you had already left."

Petyr takes a seat next to her now. It seems this news has shocked him as she can see his perplexed expression plague his brow, and he rubs at his temples.

Without opening his eyes, he asks, "And where is the body?"

"He was sent back to the Riverlands m'Lord, and given a proper Tully funeral. Lady Arryn…I mean Baelish Ser, made it clear that's how she wanted it."

"Thank you, Malina." He says abruptly, "That will be all."

She curtsies quickly, and leaves without a word. Sansa can hear her footsteps scurry down the hall, and she hears her scream one of the kitchen maid's names.

"That poor boy." She declares to no one and looks over at Petyr.

He continues rubbing his temples, and his face is pursed into a serious grimace.

"Yes," he says quietly, "He was a poor, unfortunate little creature, and I dare say there are many reasons I am sorry he's gone. It would have saved us an awfully large amount of time."

Sansa is shocked at the annoyance present in his voice. He looks up at her directly, "I'm afraid we'll need to move on from the Eyrie, my sweet. Now that Robert is gone, I've lost all claim as the Protector of the Vale. Harrold Hardyng is the rightful heir, and as soon as word of little Robert's death has reached all of Westeros all the high lords of the Vale will appear with their swords in hand…." He slumps in his chair, drifting deeply into thought.

Finally, he says, "No, we won't be staying. Unfortunately for us, we'll be making our way to the Fingers temporarily, and bend the knee dutifully to the young heir. I should have thought of it before, but it really is the perfect place for keeping a low profile."

He looks up at her and his face is calm, but fear creeps up into his eyes. It radiates off of him and she absorbs it shaking wildly, "Then where will we go?" she asks, desperste.

"I am sorry, my sweetling, but there will be less time now. Our plan will have to move forward much sooner than expected. As soon as Cersei hears word of my… demise," he pauses unsure. She is surprised to see him so uncertain.

"It will be time for my sweet wife to unchain that fearsome direwolf."

**Notes:**

Phew, that was a hard one to write! Sorry it took so long guys. Please excuse the quick journey lapse. I know it probably takes days and days to get to the Eyrie. But for the sake of timing, I didn't want to go into detail. So I'm just pretending they can get there in 2 days!

****And I was wandering on Tumblr and couldn't believe what I came across randomly!

**Bitchtitsmccrabby: **

**Now normally I ship Sandor and Sansa together… I find that the Tyrion cannon is endearing its not entirely perfect as it could have been… Poor Sansa has become the Hermione of the Game of Thrones fan fiction world…**

**But! This fanfic really surprised me, and switched my interests into purely Sansa/Petyr… The writing is flawlessly done, and realistically written to the characters. I LOVED it! And I wanted to share with you all :) Give props to the author!**

Thanks so much to whoever posted this! A wonderful review!


	8. A Burden

**There's a price she takes. Blurring lines while she ruthlessly raised the stakes. **

**We kiss on the mouth with hearts that were bound and gagged. **

**We will seldom speak, and we will rarely talk. **

**Loss wed to despair, in love when her womb was bare. **

**A kiss, a touch, our bodies became arsonists to will and brains. **

**We will rarely talk.**

**I'm just where you left me alone by them lilacs.**

Eight long weeks it's been, and Sansa glares down at the stony pass below her window. The biting wind blows through her hair causing it to whip violently around her shoulders as goosebumps spread up and down her arms. She is fidgeting with boredom and indecisiveness, and she thinks that maybe it would be easier to just free herself and let the rocks take hold of her. She delves her fingers deep in her pocket and desperately grabs for the vile. She had sewn the pocket in her dress as soon as they arrived at this dreadful place. Sansa couldn't have him finding it lying in her trunk after all. She opens her palm to reveal a tiny muse bottle that holds a red liquid. It's the Essence of Nightshade that Cersei had given her before she left King's Landing. _Ten drops and he'll never wake up, and it's untraceable. No one will ever know. Just ten drops. They'll think it an accident._ She regards the bottle a moment and thinks she would rather use it on herself. It would save her the trouble of jumping out the window.

Her moon blood hasn't appeared in weeks. It was due over a fortnight ago. She can't say she is upset not to have the messy trouble, but the thought of what it means sends dread through her bones like the cold air whipping at her face. Her fingers instinctively play with the boning of her dress that covers the softness of her tummy, and she can feel the tightness of her breasts under her corset. _But surely he must have noticed by now that I haven't bled? I_t was all she could do to keep her muck porridge down this morning as the smell reached her nostrils. The nausea came on so strong that she had to excuse herself. He looked up at her curiously with that now familiar crease across his brow, but she averted her eyes so he couldn't read her. He can always read my eyes, she thinks angrily and puffs. After spending so much time with her lord husband Sansa had learned the art of keeping her features steady, but her eyes betray her every time.

Petyr has had her in his solar for the better part of every afternoon, forcing her to read the history on houses, castles, bloodlines, marriages, deaths, battles, and wars. He says that knowledge is the power which is the key to her endeavors. But at this point she can't see what good it will do her. _How will any of that help us kill the Queen Reagent?_ Even after these tiresome months she still can't see the endgame. She raises her arm angrily as if to throw the vile. She wishes for nothing more than to watch it smash against the stony wall. But instead she let's it fall into her deep pocket and takes her frustrations out on her perfumes and brushes that line her dressing table. She swipes them swiftly off the surface with all her strength. They thrash across the floor violently and glass shatters everywhere. She immediately regrets the decision when she realizes her favorite lavender oil is now all over the floor. It took months for her to receive this in King's Landing. How will I ever get another bottle here? For as thankful that she is that they are momentarily safe here, she bitterly detests every rock and boulder that make up this retched place. The Fingers are a far cry from King's Landing. _And Highgarden for that matter_, she thinks as she sinks to the floor, defeated. Sansa then lets her mind wander, and she feels the warm sun at her face. His smooth petaled gift that matches his gilded curls brushes the tip of her nose as she breathes the sweet scent in. Loras, with eyes like the sky whisks a fiery lock of her hair behind her ear and kisses her cheek. As he does so, his eyelashes caress her like butterfly wings.

"Sansa, my sweet?" She is startled when she hears Petyr call to her from the hall, and the door rushes open revealing those knowing eyes. Loras's image leaves her like a ghost as she rouses. He gracefully kneels beside her and she can feel his hand clutch the small of her back.

"What has happened Sansa?" He says, his reserved voice perturbed.

She looks up at him guiltily. "Tis nothing Ser." she says her mouth twitching as she holds the tears of rage that swell at her eyes. She can plainly see that he is aware this was no accident, but he says nothing.

"Come here." He stands as gracefully as he knelt, and offers his hand to hers. Sansa instead decides to push herself up on her own, but follows him dutifully to their bed. Petyr sits quietly, and faces her, considering her earnestly. He's playing no game this morning.

"Sansa, I know something has been troubling you recently." He takes hold of her hands, and feels the softness of his fingertips. Those fingers that orchestrate so many plans have become a great reassurance to her these past weeks. She'll never admit that to anyone though. _What would my mother and father think of me feeling something for this man? Or Arya for that matter?_ She shudders at the thought.

He'd come to her almost every night since they've arrived in the Fingers, his eyes weary after reading by candlelight for hours, and the tips of his fingers stained black with ink. He rests those familiar, smooth fingers against the curve of her hip, pushing himself against her backside, and nuzzles his face into her neck stirring her from sleep. She can't help but give into him night after night. For he is the only constant in her ever-changing situation. She cannot count on anything or anyone, but her deepening attachment to him, aware to no one accept for the Gods, gives her endless comfort.

"Sansa?" His voice is more persistent now. "Tell me. What is it?"

"I'm sorry my Lord. It's just..."

His fingers brush up against her cheek just like Loras's had a moment before and his thumb glides under her chin. He pulls her up to face him, and urges her on with a smile.

"I am just tired. That's all...and my moon blood hasn't come yet." She replies shakily.

"What?" he says as his beam rushes away from his face. It loses any playfulness that tugged at his lips and the corner of his eyes.

"Are you sure Sansa? Sometimes these things can be quite tricky, unreliable you could say."

"It's been more than a fortnight. I can't see anything unreliable about that."

"So you think you are..." She is surprised to see him stumble on his words.

"With child, Petyr." She says using his given name carefully. She still feels too familiar using it, but he has been patient with her indecision.

He stands suddenly and she feels the usual coldness that accompanies his absence. He paces to the hearth, and warms his hands over the fire for a moment (_as if he needs warming_) then turns to her again.

His face is apprehensive, but there is happiness in his eyes._ For I can read yours too Petyr Baelish,_ Sansa thinks and smiles at him.

"You are quite sure then?"

"Yes. I am certain."

"Well then," he says matter-of- fact, and comes over to her again, but does not sit. "We must call for the Maester than shouldn't we? But Sansa," he says grabbing her shoulders roughly, "We must keep this a secret for now. Even from the servants. The three of us are the only ones that can know. For the sake of our plans word must not get out. Cersei can never know."

"That is very fine, Ser, but surely it will be difficult soon. I think that my corset must already be taken out."

" I know, my sweetling," And he kisses her fully on the mouth. "But it will all be over soon. Very soon."

Leaving her alone, Petyr shuts the door to their chambers, and roughly leans against it. He looks to the ceiling and to the floor searching for anything to keep his attention on, but can see nothing but dingy stone. His chest heaves up and down, and he feels panic rush through his bloodstream and ring in his ears. He stifles a scream. Sweat beads at his temples, and then to back of his neck and reaches his back soaking through his tunic. His mind is frenzied, and he still can't seem to catch his breath. It was all he could do to keep himself from grabbing his dagger and stabbing her deep within her womb, killing anything that might be growing inside her._ How could I have been so stupid! I let my guard down that I completely forgot about making sure she had Moon Tea. How could I have let this happen to our plan?_

He tries desperately to calm himself for he can't let anyone see the terror in his eyes. He glances down the hall searching for Malina. Nothing can look amiss. He inhales slowly, and then out. He does this for several minutes until his breathing has calmed, and he can feel his nerves unwind themselves. Then to his astonishment a sudden beaming, broad smile grasps his lips, and his crows feet creasing deeply. He is thankful no one is around to witness his stupid grin, _Even Sansa_, but his simple humanity pushes it's way to the surface, and he feels such a sense of pride that it's all he can do but contain it. _What am I going to do with this girl? I am sure she'll be the death of me._ His body goes limp as he sorts through his emotions, and with a sigh he slides down the door to the raw stone.

He doesn't know how long he closed his eyes for, his head resting in his arms, but when he wakes he decides the maester can wait until the morning. The exhaustion he has been pushing away for days has now fully taken hold of his being, so he gently opens the latch, and enters the quiet room. The cool breeze faintly blows the feathery curtains in the window and her shattered shards of glass still lay in corner, glimmering in the candlelight. He then eyes Sansa, her back to him. She is still holding the book she was reading, and the candle softly illuminates her strong and beautiful features. He undresses silently and climbs into bed behind her. His hand finds the bottom of her shift and makes it's way up the smoothness of her thighs and hips, but instead of stopping at his usual destination, he lets it pass over her warm place to the plushness of her belly. He tenderly lets it rest there and pulls her into him. His face nuzzles into her neck, and she wakes as his beard brushes her skin. She raises slightly, and her puff of breath makes the room go black. She settles again, and he can feel her pushing herself closer to him. Even though it's been weeks and weeks since their marriage, he is embarrassed to think that her responsiveness still surprises him. Then, as he feels her softly grasp his hand where it rests on her belly he whispers, "And what a perfect mother you will be."

**Notes:**

I am so sorry for how late this is! I am getting married in 6 weeks so things have been nutso around here.

This is just some fluff and angst to keep you going to the next chapter! Things will be happening now!

As always, thanks for reading and let me know what you think.


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